


A most personal incentive

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hair-pulling, Mild Feminist Musings, Negotiations, Politics, Power Dynamics, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: If Tom wanted to achieve his political goals, then he'd have topersuadeHermione of them first.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 116





	A most personal incentive

This house was probably nauseatingly expensive, it was the first thing that Hermione noted as she walked down a corridor, following the sounds of the gathering she was supposed to be attending. Original hardwood floorings, and authentic brickwork; a small part of her couldn’t help but be envious of having such party-donors as this, because despite his multiple, deep-seated flaws, and not to mention, the unappetising colour of his particular brand of politics, Malfoy certainly had enough money lying around. And she was certainly envious of Tom for having managed to secure it in his favour.

But Tom was good like that; no matter how unpalatable his politics were, he always maintained ardent support, and in the eyes of those supporters he could do no wrong. Hermione herself had never possessed the natural charisma that endeared people to Tom, but she did have practicality, something which his grandiose promises rarely contained.

Hence, she was the government and he was the official opposition. 

Hermione shook her head and sighed, she didn’t need to be thinking about him right now, rather she should be thinking about her negotiating strategy, that was why she was here, wandering through someone’s oversized house on the first place. 

She sighed again, the only good that came of this lengthy walk was the repetitive clicking of her heels against the wood of the floor was as calming as it was satisfying and made her smile. There was something undeniably powerful in that sound like a death’s knell announcing her arrival, of course, that was paired with the pain of having to wear stilettos because all female beauty apparently required suffering. A suffering which she normally avoided, simply because ballet flats were a far more practical shoe, but they did lack the certain… sophistication that she was so aiming for today.

The bubbling sounds of pleasant conversation were louder now as she approached the room where it was being held. Though Hermione paused, momentarily outside the door and tucked a curl of hair behind her ear; it wasn’t the best habit, but she was too old to change it now, and anyway, people said she looked nice with her hair behind her ear. 

Inside, the room was well-filled with a good balance of her own party members and Tom’s, as well as a few non-affiliates who came to be indulged in return for their favours. She smiled at a couple just by the drink table, but didn’t stay to talk; after all, she wasn’t here to engage in niceties over a glass of wine, however agreeable that might have been. Rather, she had more pressing business. 

Instead of staying, she passed by and knocked on a door to the left of the table. It was the same room they always did this in; secluded, private, and comfortable, and with a gathering on the other side of the door, it would be too loud for anyone else to try and listen in to what was being said. All in all, it was the perfect smoke-filled room, except instead of old men with cigars, it was her and Tom with cups of tea. 

The door opened. “Tom,” she said with her polite smile set in its careful position. 

“Ms Granger,” he replied with the usual flirtatious curve to his tone, nothing explicit, just a flush in the intonation that made conversations with him tantalising. Hermione could still remember the first time she’d heard it, and how taken aback she’d been, now she just glossed past it. 

“Are you going to let me in?” she said, not in the tone she used with everyone else. They all got something softer, a carefully curated quality, one of her aides had called it maternal; apparently, that was what people wanted from women these days: softness, faint femininity, and an unerring motherly approach that made them feel… safe in difficult times. It wasn’t by any means her preferred tone address, which was why it was so nice to drop it around Tom, who found it more irritating than endearing.

With him, she could be firmer, sharper, and in a way her more natural self. 

“I wouldn’t dream of denying you,” he replied, stepping aside to let her through the door before closing it and turning the key, after all, they didn’t want interruptions of any kind, but least of all from distressed members looking for an easy resolution to their supposed problems. Few people truly appreciated the logistics of scheduling meetings, especially with someone who was just as busy as herself; so this was _their_ time, and they were going to use it to maximum effect. 

“I like your dress,” Tom said, stepping away from the door and letting his eyes wander, not with any overly lubricious intent, but simply, as though he were admiring a thing of aesthetic appeal like flowers or art. He was always like that, charming and courteous, or he was, right up until he wasn’t; though, of course, if you were stabbed in the back by his malevolent ambition, you were rarely aware that it was him doing the stabbing. More often than not, it was malign circumstances crawling out from your personal history, and the only indication that he was involved at all, was the faint scrawling signature he left behind.

However, political backstabbing and its merits were not on the agenda for today.

Hermione instead just smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said, consciously smoothing her hands down from her hips to the top of her thighs. It was a red dress, darker than she normally wore, but it warmed her skin and too was there something wonderfully appealing about red; confidence-inducing, not to mention, brutally elegant and, dare she say, erotic. 

Her mother might have said that it was inappropriate to wear that to a business meeting, but it a _private_ business meeting between her and Tom, and they’d known each other so long now that it barely constituted as any sort of _professional_ meeting at all. 

But that wasn’t to say that they were quite friends. 

Dichotomous political views drew harsh distinctions between them, ones that were rarely crossable in polite conversation. Though in _less_ than a polite conversation that could have quite the discussion; the sort of intellectual stimulus that left her mouth dry and her lungs heaving, he was the same. 

Though now, Tom just smiled and turned back to go in deeper into the room, Hermione passed his eyes over him, after all, she wasn’t blind; Tom was usually the best-looking thing in any room, and today was no exception. He had one of those acclaimed faces that contained no slight or imperfection, but it wasn’t just his face that made him so… captivating, it was also the way he carried himself. That unapologetically confident exterior and superficial charm that could melt anything as though it were butter. 

She swallowed. There were, of course, two ways that a man could wear a suit, passably and exceptionally. The former was tolerable but hardly worth looking at, just a speck in a continual dust-storm, in the best cases those men had singled themselves as boring, at worst, actively obnoxious. But the latter kind, the exceptional, was magnetic. Perhaps it was the pull of a personality infused into the very fabric of their clothes, or merely the fact that they wore them with confidence instead of disinterest, either way, those men tended to be worth lingering on. 

Tom was one of those men.

Before she could continue her appreciations though, Tom turned back to face her. “I took the liberty of making you tea,” he said with the same smile, “lemon and honey; no sugar, no milk, no caffeine, just how you like it.” There was such a politeness in his tone, which was rare from powerful men in politics, she’d learnt that over the years. Men tended to get defensive when they felt a woman was stepping onto their territory, even if they had never been entitled to call such territory their own. 

She smiled. “thank you, Tom,” she said, taking the couple of steps forward so that he could hand her cup and saucer, all very proper. Though that’s what they were, the last pillars of decorum people said, old-fashioned politicians that did not stoop to the depths of childish jibes as their predecessors had so regularly done. 

Rather, they understood each other; they each knew what they wanted, and in turn, what the other wanted because that was how relationships, professional or otherwise, were supposed to go. They were built on the strong foundations of mutual exchange of advantages so that an equilibrium that benefitted both of them could be meticulously maintained.

“Shall we begin?” Hermione said, taking a seat on one of the leather sofas, Tom sat on an identical one opposite. His tea remained on the table, as of yet, untouched, and beside it sat the bowl of sugar cubes because he always took his tea too sweet. 

“I want to discuss the women’s bill,” she said, watching him and he leant forward to begin the almost punctilious process of places sugar cubes into his teacup. Two of them dropped in like a child might drop pebbles in a pond. He stirred it slowly, before leaning back against the leather.   
“And I am amenable to that discussion,” he said, still with a smile playing at the edges of his mouth, smoothing out the lines that could become harsh if left unattended. 

“Well then,” Hermione said, crossing her legs, right above, left below, and balancing the saucer on her knee, “as you rightly know, this bill will benefit _all_ women in a distinctly nonpartisan way.” She paused for a second, allowing the full depth of consideration of the implications to be taken. “Therefore, your lack of support thus far is somewhat disappointing, not to mention – ”

Tom raised his hand, or more accurately, he raised a single finger, “may I interrupt you,” he said with a continued politeness that somehow felt out of place with an action that was so impolite in its origins. 

“If you must,” she said, coldly and not bothering to look him in the eye, not when she already knew the expression he would be making. Hermione had seen it every time he got the silence that he wanted; the opportunity to become centre stage once more. Instead of looking at that, she let her eye wander again, this time down to the floor. Tom’s feet were resting against the carpet at the base of the sofa; his shoes matched the colour of the leather, a deep oxblood, rather like the dark colouring of his tea.

He just watched her, contemplatively. “You must understand by now, Ms Granger, I’m not a monster,” he said, almost as though he were offended by the insinuation. “And I’ll support the women’s bill out of the goodness of my own heart; no terms and no conditions, as you say its important.”  
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, the first hurdle in the show jumped without argument because this was all they did: glorified show jumping, each periodically taking on the role of the rider to guide and the horse to merely jump when required. 

But her moment of relief was somewhat ruined only a second later. “ _However_ ,” Tom continued, the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth indicating he _knew_ he’d just ruined her mood. “I was rather looking for a quid pro quo, as it were, _elsewhere_.” 

Hermione took a breath in and glanced down at her tea. He engaged regularly in triviality because he knew it annoyed her, and for some reason that entertained him. Raising her eyes again to meet his own, Hermione continued her steely gaze, “what do you want, Tom?” she said for it was better to be direct with him, otherwise it initiated a form of linguist fencing, which was undeniably pleasant, but also wasted time.

“You give me free passageway for my criminal justice bill, and in return, I’ll… _not_ oppose that elderly care clause you expressed such an interest in,” he said, pausing to sip on his tea like he had all the time in the world. Tom’s method of politics had always been a unique one, and after seven years on the political circuit, Hermione had decided that he definitely preferred to be in opposition than government; there he could have all the fun and none of the responsibility.

Like now, he could sit there, smiling and drinking tea, knowing full well that any concession she made would always be _his_ victory and _her_ loss, and there was nothing she could do about it.

“I want you to back the citizenship bill,” she said, feeling her mouth settle into that usual, tense line that it always did when she wanted something he wasn’t always prepared to give, and apparently, today was no exception. Before she’d barely finished the request, Tom had his hand raised again. 

“Oh, that’s an outright no,” he said, with a slight incline of his head, as though the denial of such a request upset him, but not enough to alter his position on it, “at least, not unless I get _quite_ a bit more from you.”

Hermione sat back, her back straightening, “what if I let you amend section four; make it _exactly_ how you wanted it?” she said, carefully, because with Tom word choice was ever so significant. The slightest slip of authority, or the misuse of a single word, degraded your position in his eyes and it was hard to claw it back. 

But at that suggestion, he dipped his head as though it made him laugh. “Not good enough,” he said, looking back up at her, his eyes catching the light and almost glittering. “Malfoy’s little faction hates that bill, as you well know, and I’m not about to tear my party apart just so that _I_ can get what I want; unless, of course…” he dipped his head again, but this time it lacked any genuineness, and rather it looked like he was an actor that had spontaneous slid into a character he was playing. “…You let me amend sections seven and fifteen as well: you know what I want from them.”

“Absolutely not.”

Tom sat back, one hand raising in an almost shrugging motion. He sighed, “then you’re not getting support for citizenship,” he said, “at least, not from me.” He left the last part of that sentence open wide for discussion because they both knew that power, albeit less, rested with a third party. One that Tom was far less inclined to engage with, but he had done so, mostly to defeat certain aspects of Hermione’s own legislative program that he had found especially distasteful, always with the age-old proverb sliding off his tongue, _the enemy of my enemy is my friend_.

Hermione had not found it endearing then, and she did not find the suggestion endearing now. 

“Fine,” she said, taking a sip of her tea and hoping he heard the china clinking on her teeth, “I’ll go to Percy; he’ll do it.” Three-way politics was harder to navigate than other formulations, truces were formed and fractured within hours and every decision involved painstaking conversations that dissected each and every word of a bill. 

The only benefit that she had seen so far was that she could conduct her negotiations in fancy rooms with expensive tea and pleasant company. 

“If you care to remember, Mr Weasley is the reason that we’re here in the first place,” Tom said, “And, anyway, he _might_ well give you citizenship, but there’ll be significant amendments.” He paused to take another sip of his own tea, and Hermione watched his throat as he swallowed.   
“I know for a fact,” Tom continued, “that he does not like all that delegated legislation you so carefully included, and you wouldn’t want to lose that, would you?”

Hermione smiled tensely, the grip on her saucer increasing until it almost hurt her own fingers and almost certainly left behind a smudge against the perfect white. Tom only ever asked rhetorical questions when he knew he’d backed someone into a corner, usually one decorated with their own effects. It was one of his favourite party tricks, though he was rarely successful with her. 

She swallowed and took a deep inhale. “Let’s start again, shall we?” she said, placing her cup of tea back down on the table, three-quarters finished. “I will support your finance reform bill without _any_ meaningful amendment,” she said, before adding, as an extra shiny incentive, “I’ll even guillotine it if you ask me to.”

Immediately, Tom sat up straighter, and why wouldn’t he? That bill had been stuck for months at its very conception, dying each time Tom even tried to introduce it, mostly because it was unpleasant and unnecessary, although not outright obnoxious; hence, it could go through at a price. Tom seemed to recognise that there was a condition waiting on the tip of her tongue because he eyed her suspiciously, and placed down his own cup of tea so that he could lean closer. “In return for what?” he asked.

“My environmental protection bill.”

He raised an eyebrow, “the one no one will touch?”

That was a deliberate insult and he knew it, designed to cut right down to the bone. After all, Tom wasn’t the only one whose legislative proposals were being so vehemently ignored.   
“Yes, that one,” she said coldly, watching Tom as he moved his fingers while considered. They weaved between each other, sliding in and out; the tips stroking over the knuckles so carefully that it was painfully intimate to watch. Almost as painful as the intimacy with which Tom was watching her, his eyes focused on her legs, tracing the shape. 

Hermione uncrossed her legs before crossing them again, this time with her left leg on top.

But Tom just continued to work his fingers together, he hummed quietly like he was an old-fashioned machine whose noise meant efficiency. Eventually, he tilted his head to the side, and smiled again, “I’ll accept, but,” he said softly, “I want to suggest, not an amendment as such, but rather, a revision of sections twelve and twenty-three, _and_ I want implementation to go from four years to seven.”

It was an audacious proposal, and entirely inappropriate. Hermione tapped her fingers against her thigh and smiled when his eyes followed the movement.   
“Five years,” she said; it was a far more realistic suggestion and that way she might well still be in office to see the fruits of her labour be translated into political advantage.

“Six,” Tom returned, now tapping his own fingers in imitation of her own. 

“Five,” she repeated. 

Tom licked his lips, his fingers stilling and, instead, spreading themselves, somewhat provocatively over his thigh like a possessive paramour might in the face of jealous competition. “If I do let you have a five-year implementation,” he said, speaking slower, and choosing his words more carefully, “you give me the revisions I want.”

Hermione stayed silent, though her lips were moving as she considered. Letting Tom have free reign anywhere was always risky but letting him have control of something so deeply important, was on another scale entirely. She looked at his face, trying to read whether there were lies etched into his pupils or stitched into the corners of his mouth, whilst ignoring a budding warmth pressing on her pelvis.

When she said nothing for long enough for him to get bored of waiting, Tom continued, “you won’t get it passed without me, you _know_ that, and you _did_ go and promise everyone that you were going to be the one to _actually_ get things done.” He continued to smile, “and, I’m sure the broadsheets would love to hear that you can’t get your flagship policy passed…” he leant forward, “I mean, they’ve probably already started to suspect it.”

She glared; Tom was never above bringing the media into places it didn’t belong. Of course, Hermione was all for transparent leadership, but Tom didn’t do it for transparency, he did it to raise the stakes. “Alright,” she said with a nod, “yes to twenty-three, no to twelve,” she continued, “but if you keep complaining, I’ll start issuing conditions for your finance bill – ”

But she barely got to finish that sentence before Tom had raised his hand to start his own sentence again. “You know, alterations to section twelve will make me far more amenable for the budget,” he said.

“I don’t _need_ you to agree the budget,” she snapped. 

“But you _want_ me to agree it,” he snapped back, though it lacked any bite and instead came out as a simple truth, that both politically and, indeed, personally, she wanted him to agree it. Hermione swallowed, and shifted, it was uncomfortably warm in here. As she sat there, watching, her fingers stilled on her thigh; Tom’s did too and they both stayed, tracing each other’s silhouettes with their eyes and looking for weaknesses. 

That silence stretched on, both of them waiting for the other to back down like they had so many times before. But instead of acquiescence, the only interruption was a noise from outside the door that rather sounded like something expensive being dropped, followed by a clamouring of voices as people expressed a whole host of opinions. Though none of them sounded overly negative, in fact, it rather sounded like whatever had happened was riotously funny.   
“It’s amazing how people can get along when you remove the politics, isn’t it?” Tom murmured, his eyes never leaving hers, not even to look at the door, and his hands moving, curling into fists as he cracked his knuckles. 

“So why don’t _we_ remove the politics too?” he continued softly, the tone of his words altering itself ever so slightly so that it was lower and far smoother around the edges; designed to be hypnotic. “Let me have section twelve, simply because I want it.”

In those last words, the provocative hue became obvious; daring her, like he always did to take this that one step further to the place it shouldn’t really go. It made her heart thud in her chest like a schoolgirl with her first crush, but Hermione swallowed it down and met his eyes. “Why don’t you prove that you deserve it, Tom?” she said, keeping her own tone firm and light, almost clinical, “why don’t you _persuade_ me that you’ve earned it?”

For a moment the proposal hung in the air; as a heaviness between them that was so thick, it stuck to her tongue and made swallowing hard. Hermione shifted, realigning herself so that her back was straighter and her hands looser as they rested on her thigh. Beneath her, the leather squeaked under her weight, and Tom still watched, his tongue running over his mouth slowly.

“Oh, Ms Granger,” he said eventually, “you only had to ask.” 

Tom stood up then and shrugged off his jacket, folding it neatly and placing it across the arm of the sofa. He licked his lips again and swallowed. This time Hermione let her eyes linger at his throat, watching the muscles stretch as he turned his neck, before folding up his sleeves and smiling at her like she was his favourite dessert. But Hermione didn’t say anything against that, she just let him get down on his knees before her; the charcoal of his suit complementing the merlot colour of this hideously expensive carpet, and his hands tracing up the length of her leg before splaying out lazily over her knee. 

People always assumed that powerful men, like Tom, must want control because that was their singular commonality regardless of age or country of origin or other tastes. But she’d found that it wasn’t always the case, of course, there were some men who did demand submission in unhealthy and distasteful ways, but other men preferred the antipodal position. For them the thrill came from _losing_ the control they’d amassed, and, for once in their lives, being at someone else’s heel. 

Hermione suspected that Tom’s motivations lay somewhere in between. A distinct desire to control outcomes in his favour, but an intellect that was good enough to recognise the fastest way to some of these outcomes might just be through the merits of his tongue. 

But either way, it didn’t really matter, for when Tom was down on his knees like this, he was like a rare aphrodisiac reserved, she suspected, exclusively for her. After all, he wasn’t married, and if he was in any long-term relationship, it was so incurably unfaithful that it would barely count at all. Slowly, she uncrossed her legs, ignoring the heavy, laborious thumping of her heart and the warm weight pushing against her pelvis, and let him settle between her thighs. 

This close up Hermione could see the oxblood in his eyes, though maybe it was merely a replication of the lights that hung above them, either way, it was beautiful like he had the roots of a rosewood tree growing through his irises. Sometimes it seemed a shame that she didn’t get to see more of those eyes, particularly, when he could be such a delightful thing to have on his back, but then again, this was about _him_ persuading _her_ , not vice versa. 

Not to mention, Tom was criminally good to look at from _any_ angle, and especially when he smiled like that with his head tipped back; his throat exposed and the faintest of flushes apparent just under his collar, Hermione wondered briefly if she undressed him, how far that colouring would go. Would it diffuse out after only an inch or two? Or, would that pink the colour of grapefruit juice run vein-like links all over his skin? She would like to trace those lines if they existed, just run her nails along them and watch him squirm. 

But that would have to wait. 

For now, his hands were resting on the edge of her thigh, the fingers each pressing into the skin and leaving behind their own small indentations. Without looking up, Tom paused, “you know I like your taste,” he murmured, his mouth up close against her skin, making the hairs prickle on her thigh. “It’s so… classy,” he said, his fingers now sliding over her leg, upward from the knee, tracing the femur until he reached the hem of her dress. For a moment, he hesitated, though Hermione doubted it was for her sake; rather he was feeling the air like a snake, before deciding that no one was about to interrupt. But the anticipation still made her tense her thighs and pushing her feet harder against the floor so that surely the spike of her stiletto would leave a dent in the wood. 

Tom didn’t notice, he only pressed his hand beneath the hem, and his palm was warm and smooth as he left behind her stocking and felt her skin. Hermione inhaled through her teeth. If Tom noticed that, he didn’t comment, he only continued the sliding of his hand, until she was wriggling and lifting her hips so that he could slip her underwear down her thighs. When she’d got ready this morning, she’d considered not wearing anything, at the time it had seemed such a naughty, flirtatious thing to do, but now, she was glad she hadn’t. This way, he was forced to unwrap her and to take his time in his persuasion until she was satisfied that he meant it.

On more than one occasion, Hermione had wondered whether this was an arrangement she’d inherited from her predecessor. Whether this had always been the methodology that Tom had employed to enable his own advantage, or whether she was special, in a way. But she had never asked, and he’d never told; to do that would be to acknowledge this _thing_ in a light which neither of them wanted to. 

So instead, she let herself sink deeper into the leather, her back curving to mimic its shape as Tom began to use his tongue to lick and rub and tease. The heat of it continued to press through her, as a pressure on the base of his spine and a heaviness weighing on her lungs. There were many things that could be said about Tom’s tongue; the mesmerising way it could wrap around difficult words and complex languages, or how it could paint pictures of dreams to people naïve enough to believe him, but this was definitely its best usage. The persistent warmth of his mouth mixed with the stretch of his tongue and the tiniest nicks of his teeth that had her leaning further back in the sofa, the leather sticking to her neck and to the hand that wasn’t buried in Tom’s hair.

Though Tom hardly needed directing these days, but it felt good to dig her fingers into his hair and pull it hard when he got greedy.

As a further encouragement, Hermione draped her leg over his shoulder and against his back, the heel of her shoe pressing lightly into his spine. One day, his mouth might cause her to accidentally push her stiletto straight through his skin and his muscle and right into his ribs. But for now, she kept it flat, the very base just scraping over his shirt probably leaving a dirty streak right up the middle. 

Already, she knew going to let him have what he wanted, Tom knew that too; he’d known he was going to get something he liked as soon as she walked in, and as soon as she asked him to get on knees he knew what it was. So, whatever he might claim about coercion, Tom was only down on his knees, doing heinously good things with his tongue, because he wanted to be. 

Hermione swallowed again and concentrated instead on taking long, paced breaths. Pleasure was a simple word that so often, so many people took to mean it should be a simple act. But simple acts so rarely contained anything of substance, and whilst, of course, a short, fast act, held merit on occasion, it was nothing compared to the slow, lazy press of Tom’s fingers easing into her. Rapidity held nothing against that achingly unhurried pace that was so intimate that it was practically invasive; and Hermione would have called him out on it if he hadn’t curled his fingers in a way that just made her melt.

But Tom was Tom and even as he coaxed his fingers, luring out that tightly strung thing that was pooling in her stomach, he smiled darkly, before drawing back entirely, leaving her clenching at the loss. “If you like this,” he murmured, “think how _agreeable_ I could be if you let me have any amendment I want on section twelve; I’d be so _grateful_ don’t you think?” he said, each word breathless and followed by his mouth pressed against her thigh, and a string of half-kissed notches left in the skin.

Hermione ignored him, or rather, she ignored the obsequious tone and its associated unctuous gestures. She’d seen him when he really was breathless with arousal and running ragged at the edges, and, quite frankly, this imitation was poor. Perhaps, it would have fooled a naïve little thing, but not her, not anymore. So, instead, she dug her hand further into his hair and pulled it back, “it’s an amendment, now is it?” she said.

Tom stopped mouthing at her thigh and turned to look at her, eyes, drawn-out into these wide, wicked things, and the corner of his mouth upturned, “just a slip of the tongue,” he said, his tongue flicking out to lick his mouth like he was proving it.

“Well,” she said, yanking harder, until she heard the trace of a groan swallowed too quickly. “I trust it won’t slip again,” she murmured, meaning it, after all, Tom knew what happened when he said things he shouldn’t. She could practically see the knowledge swimming through his eyes as he watched her; his mouth wet and his throat on display with the faintest curls of peony-pink slithering up his neck, and this glossiness embedded in his eyes. “Oh, it won’t,” he murmured, though the syllables caught in his mouth and came out rougher than they should have done. 

Hermione smiled, “good,” she said, before she dragged his head forward again, back between her thighs, and he did _exactly_ what he was supposed to.

She could feel it close now, practically taste it on the back of her throat, and her body knew it too. With every slide of Tom’s fingers and every roll of his tongue, the knot in her stomach got tighter and her thighs ached, and she gripped harder at his hair. But Tom didn’t complain, Tom never complained, not even when he nails scratched his scalp or her heel forced his back into an awkward angle. He just continued to use his tongue and work his fingers, until she was gritting her teeth and groaning.

And that was it. 

Without especially meaning to she held Tom there as her stomach clenched and everything inside her unravelled. But he didn’t try to move, not until her breathing had levelled out, and the hand that held him in his place had relaxed a little.

That was when he looked up her, still smiling, though his eyes were glazed over, and Hermione could take her eyes off the completely dishevelled state that his hair was in, it looked good on him.  
“So, Ms Granger,” Tom murmured, “have I persuaded you?” 

Hermione closed her eyes and let her head rest against the back of the sofa, the leather, now cool on her skin. She could say yes and then just sit back up, drink the rest of her cold tea and talk about the state of the National Health Service. _Or_ she could get Tom on his back and find out how far beneath his collar that pretty pink blush went. 

“Not yet, Tom,” she said, swallowing hard and sitting up, “not quite yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've never tried writing this pairing before, or Hermione in general actually, so any criticism is certainly welcome, and I apologise for going pretty all in with the politics.


End file.
